The Sun, The Sand, The ClockWork Man

A man made of flesh, blood and clockwork stumbles through the desert in hopes of finding a town after countless days in the dry heat.

 

Part One

The Sun, The Sand, The Clock Work Man

     Across the sun baked and barren inhospitable wastelands, trekked a single man. He more stumbled than walked, but that was besides the point; he endeavored not to cross the whole dry wastes, but to find some form of town or encampment, so he would no longer have to travel across the desert. This man lurched constantly forward, and fell back almost a step for every two he took. To conclude he wasn't getting any where fast, would be an accurate assumption. There was a hand of fingers coated in dirt, blisters, and bruised nails of a working man hung loosely at his side but prepared to reach for the pistol holstered at his hip if need be... which would have been useless, for the fire arm was empty. His lips seemed to move unconsciously, as if he was drinking water. Unfortunately, the only thing the man had drunk in days were particles of dust that seemed to constantly find there way into his mouth, passed his cracked and bleeding lips, making him cough from time to time.

     His misadventure through the wastes had begun several days ago, though he could no longer remember how many days ago, nor what day of the week it currently was. He'd started out upon a horse, which he had 'liberated' from it's stall in it's actual owners barn. The horse had however, just like him, gone to long without drinking, and carrying a man was too much effort. Without much thought he'd put the horse out it's misery. However that 'kind' act, cost the man his only bullet left residing within the gun; all the rest had been fired off at his pursuers several days before losing them in the scorched dessert. Which was unfortunate for a man who was beginning to wish he had at least one last bullet to escort himself to an afterlife. And by now the afterlife was looking more and more pleasant as the hours had dragged on. Every hour the sun just got higher in the sky, and seemingly burned hotter.

     As he walked on stumbling, bumbling and mumbling, he tripped on some blunted object protruding from the sand and dirt. He fell landing on hands and knees. The man's hands seemed burned by the hot earth beneath him, and he moved quick as he could to stagger back to his feet, rubbing his filthy, bandaged hands together to sooth them, one of them, gloved.

     The thing he had reeled over was a wheel to a wagon, half rotted and buried in the sand., it's metal axel and other parts that once supported a wagon, were now not more than broken pieces of wood and and iron. The twisted metal frame, bent upward like a skeleton of rust, a hand of a man buried alive, reaching up for the sun as if begging for mercy. He stared at it for a moment in a daze.

     And by this time, the walker had begun walking again, eager to escape the ghosts that seemed to haunt him here. He felt that the wind was whispering dark thoughts to him, foretelling his own death, whispering his name, and that the sand and gravel beneath him was trying to take a hold on his weary feet and drag him down- But really he was just hallucinating from lack of water rest and shade.

     The man who was trekking through this desert, was less than completely human. While half his joints ached, the other half creaked and whined. Half the man was flesh, blood, tendons, ligaments and functioning organs. The other half was that of clock work. Metal cogs, tightly wound springs, and old iron screws ticking each second away, just as the minute hand of a clock would, but only when he moved those limbs. At least the sand scraping against his skin and clock work would keep the rust away.

     He was once a quite a normal man, but a factory accident had left him an arm, and a leg short of a whole man. He'd taken to being a watch maker's apprentice at a young age, as most wouldn't hire a young boy missing a few pieces. But MacArthur had taken him in. He'd learned to build the most magnificent watches. But he wanted to create. He wanted far more than to work in a shabby little workshop for the rest of his life, slaving over mismatched cogs, little springs, and tiny ticking things. But his physical limitations, and inability to so much as walk without a crutch, had left him few options. So he'd locked himself away in that workshop, and didn't quit til he was done.

     He did for himself what some would say only God had the right to do. With the little knowledge he had on the human body, he fashioned himself, a mechanical arm, and a leg, far superior to a barely useful wooden peg. They both functioned perfectly. His creation was genius beyond his time. He could flex those false fingers perfectly and the leg's artificial joint could bend with the same efficiency of a real one, if not better. It never tired, nor ached. Unfortunately, the rest of him did. He could in fact run out of breath, and he could starve.

     The man limped onward his clockwork leg just a bit shorter than his real leg. He wiped his gloved hand over his forehead, clearing away the sweat, and covering his eyes, the red veins in the whites of his eyes more noticeably than ever, his eyes about as dry as a raisin. He looked passed the waves of heat emanating from the earth, and saw a form in the distance, maybe a mile away.

     It had the appearance of a town, or at least something like it. His only hope was that it wasn't as abandoned as the wagon he'd passed a short time ago, and that it would have some water to offer, some food to give, and a place to sleep a spell.